Prince of Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Nancy Gideon
decisively as possible.
His brothers were trained in weapons and hand-to-hand. Each had pursued a particular style, and all were undeniably lethal. Because Cale had needed to overcome so much, he’d mastered every discipline.
Runt of the litter . That harsh stigma had followed him throughout childhood. The one his father should have crushed under a stone upon birth. Puny, sickly, an embarrassment. Survival had been a daily struggle, to thrive a near-Herculean feat. In order to have, hold, and protect those things closest to his heart, he’d had to be bolder, braver, more ruthless than the others. He’d had to train until he was too exhausted to stand. He’d faced down any risk, any challenge, any threat in order to keep the edge. He’d accepted punishment without flinching, delivered cruelties without hesitation, because nothing could beat or torture him as much as the thought of another humiliation like the one he’d suffered at Silas MacCreedy’s hands. And now that all he’d fought for was within reach, he wasn’t going to let it slip away again.
He was aware of the audience seated in the bleachers above the high walls of the racquetball court where they often sparred, but he didn’t acknowledge them. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Yet still he was.
There were almost ten years between Cale and his three youngest brothers. He’d quietly taken them under his wing to help with their training. Because they’d been too little to remember when he was a disgrace, they regarded him as if he were immortal. And he kind of got a kick out of it.
Kip, the youngest prince, was seventeen and this was his first contest. His nervousness had him sweating. Cale stepped up next to him to advise without seeming to, “Breathe. Keep your hands dry. Who do you face first?”
“Colin.”
“Go at him fast and hard. Don’t give him time to think.”
“And what advice do you have for when I go up against you?”
“Lose gracefully.”
The boy grinned at him and wiped damp palms on his T-shirt. “Thanks, Cale.”
“What don’t kill you, brother.” Methodical Colin would crush him, but a quick attack would give a good accounting.
Restoring his game face, Cale drank deeply from the mixture in his water bottle as he watched James and Frederick square off for the first match. James was good with weapons: crossbow, rifle, blades, throwing stars, but no equal to the hotheaded Rico’s hammering body blows. Not a humiliating loss but quick.
Giving Kip an elbow bump as the boy walked toward the court, Cale plugged in the earbuds of his iPod and cranked up the volume so he could sink into the heavy-metal fury of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor.” The first warm twists of aggression unfurled. He put on his wraparound dark glasses and waited for the heat to burn. A lovely, fierce blaze that would make him if not immortal, then at least pretty damned invincible.
As the youngest prince was carried out draped over the victor’s shoulder, Cale followed Michael out into the spotlight. Almost twenty, with at least six inches of height and forty pounds on him, his little brother was full of self-important posturing. The instant Michael turned toward him, Cale hit him like a head-on collision.
Cale’s first blow broke his nose, the second his jaw, the third, three of his ribs. A vicious elbow to the chin and a roundhouse to the temple laid his brother out on the floor, spitting up blood. Reining back hard on a seething need to do more damage, Cale knelt beside him. Bracing a forearm across his throat, Cale leaned in close to warn, “This isn’t your time, Mikey, it’s mine. Yield before I really hurt you.”
Michael spread his hands wide and let his older brother drag him to his feet. One down. One step closer to his goal. As Cale draped Michael’s arm about his shoulders, he glanced up to gauge the audience’s reaction. He got the expected nod of approval from his father, but when he looked at Kendra, he was held by
His brothers were trained in weapons and hand-to-hand. Each had pursued a particular style, and all were undeniably lethal. Because Cale had needed to overcome so much, he’d mastered every discipline.
Runt of the litter . That harsh stigma had followed him throughout childhood. The one his father should have crushed under a stone upon birth. Puny, sickly, an embarrassment. Survival had been a daily struggle, to thrive a near-Herculean feat. In order to have, hold, and protect those things closest to his heart, he’d had to be bolder, braver, more ruthless than the others. He’d had to train until he was too exhausted to stand. He’d faced down any risk, any challenge, any threat in order to keep the edge. He’d accepted punishment without flinching, delivered cruelties without hesitation, because nothing could beat or torture him as much as the thought of another humiliation like the one he’d suffered at Silas MacCreedy’s hands. And now that all he’d fought for was within reach, he wasn’t going to let it slip away again.
He was aware of the audience seated in the bleachers above the high walls of the racquetball court where they often sparred, but he didn’t acknowledge them. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Yet still he was.
There were almost ten years between Cale and his three youngest brothers. He’d quietly taken them under his wing to help with their training. Because they’d been too little to remember when he was a disgrace, they regarded him as if he were immortal. And he kind of got a kick out of it.
Kip, the youngest prince, was seventeen and this was his first contest. His nervousness had him sweating. Cale stepped up next to him to advise without seeming to, “Breathe. Keep your hands dry. Who do you face first?”
“Colin.”
“Go at him fast and hard. Don’t give him time to think.”
“And what advice do you have for when I go up against you?”
“Lose gracefully.”
The boy grinned at him and wiped damp palms on his T-shirt. “Thanks, Cale.”
“What don’t kill you, brother.” Methodical Colin would crush him, but a quick attack would give a good accounting.
Restoring his game face, Cale drank deeply from the mixture in his water bottle as he watched James and Frederick square off for the first match. James was good with weapons: crossbow, rifle, blades, throwing stars, but no equal to the hotheaded Rico’s hammering body blows. Not a humiliating loss but quick.
Giving Kip an elbow bump as the boy walked toward the court, Cale plugged in the earbuds of his iPod and cranked up the volume so he could sink into the heavy-metal fury of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor.” The first warm twists of aggression unfurled. He put on his wraparound dark glasses and waited for the heat to burn. A lovely, fierce blaze that would make him if not immortal, then at least pretty damned invincible.
As the youngest prince was carried out draped over the victor’s shoulder, Cale followed Michael out into the spotlight. Almost twenty, with at least six inches of height and forty pounds on him, his little brother was full of self-important posturing. The instant Michael turned toward him, Cale hit him like a head-on collision.
Cale’s first blow broke his nose, the second his jaw, the third, three of his ribs. A vicious elbow to the chin and a roundhouse to the temple laid his brother out on the floor, spitting up blood. Reining back hard on a seething need to do more damage, Cale knelt beside him. Bracing a forearm across his throat, Cale leaned in close to warn, “This isn’t your time, Mikey, it’s mine. Yield before I really hurt you.”
Michael spread his hands wide and let his older brother drag him to his feet. One down. One step closer to his goal. As Cale draped Michael’s arm about his shoulders, he glanced up to gauge the audience’s reaction. He got the expected nod of approval from his father, but when he looked at Kendra, he was held by